


Colourblind

by fanficsbcimbasic



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Hamilton Being an Asshole, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Death, Guns, Hamilton - Freeform, M/M, alex almost dies, but spoilers, guns too, like a lot, shhhhh, thomas is a bitch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-06 03:38:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11027832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanficsbcimbasic/pseuds/fanficsbcimbasic
Summary: In this world, nobody dies. Sounds great, doesn't it? But wait. There's a catch. Actually, there are quite a few. Nobody is born with the ability to see colour, for one. There's obviously a way to reverse this, but everyone's fine with it. So what, you see grey all the time, colourblind people have to live with it, don't they? However, there's a problem and the drawback is this: Once you see your soulmate for the first time, all colours are visible. However, this means the start of your mortality. Confusing, I know, but it's very interesting. It means the entire population spends their days looking down. Just walking along like zombies with their eyes glued to the floor. Some people are so in love with their immortality that orginations to kill soulmates are founded. Private assassins, sometimes even murdering family members and friends, are sent out to kill, all for the money made from a paranoid member of the public. But what happens when a group of people are set loose, trying to find the person they were meant for? What happens when one of these people is matched with their killer?





	Colourblind

The echoes from the shot ring out through the empty alleyway, the noises bouncing off each surface over and over to repeat the same identical crack which has just taken its toll.  His arm lowers, the plumes of cloudy grey smoke billowing from the end of his pistol and catching the wind, all traces of its existence erased as quickly as it was formed. Thomas has always held an admiration for the way it disperses itself, removing evidence almost independently and clearing the air as if nothing had ever happened. If only bodies worked in the same way.

For a moment he simply stands there, watching the small black stream trickle from his victim’s head wound and down to the drain. He has always enjoyed sights such as the present one – watching certain lives cease by his own hand while another flourishes somewhere as a result – though he is fully aware of the necessity to hastily destroy all signs of his presence. Still, that cannot rush him. That’s the thing about being hired primarily to cause the deaths of others. You enjoy it. Normally it’s simply a matter of getting in, doing the job, covering it up and continuing your everyday life, not letting anybody discover the sins you commit regularly in your illegal career. But despite all of this there’s just something enjoyable about it all.

With one last moment of observation, Thomas returns the pistol to its original place – slotted into a specifically designed holder which is concealed at his hip, pressing against his side and hidden under the folds of material created by his baggy black jacket. He glances over to the lifeless corpse at his feet, the victim of a bullet to the brain. He is sure that’s the best way to do it. Quick and relatively painless. Also efficient for him, not to mention easy and fairly cheap. Call him a masochist, he admittedly enjoys his job. Even disposal is an interesting part of it. And that is the task currently at hand.

He takes another look around. A trained professional such as himself is artfully skilled in handling situations such as the current one. Around him are a few dumpsters, and other miscellaneous sets of construction equipment pushed up against the stained walls. Occasional smears of dried blood means he won’t need to put a lot of effort into clearing up the blood; this place has clearly seen it all before.  Destroyed, mostly, as well. It isn’t exactly a place you’d visit much, judging by the state of his surroundings. He reaches into his pocket and feels around a little, finding a couple of items at the bottom. The gears in his brain start whirring and almost automatically, a plan is formatted in his head. Not one too elaborate but hey, It _has_ worked for him before. After all, you can never be too picky. It’s always hard to get what you want, especially when it comes to making out that a death may not have happened in whichever location you are working.

This part is always irritating, to say the least. Thomas crouches down and scoops up the limp body, being careful that the victim’s head doesn’t touch his clothing in risk of blood being transferred to stack up evidence against him. This is highly illegal, anyway. In fact, it is said that discovered assassins will not be tried for their crimes; simply sent away to find themselves being tortured for information and killed directly afterwards. If he values his life Thomas needs to be careful. He stands up, balancing his weight expertly, and makes his way over to a skip. It is a tall one, decreasing his chances of a discovery, however not stopping it completely. The police are too thorough for that. This offence is a widespread crime; huge searches are always held regularly for investigation of certain cases. He stands on his tiptoes and lets the lifeless shell of a human over the wall, hitting the hard, bright yellow bottom of the skip with a slight _thud_. He winces automatically before shaking it off, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a simple matchbox, something he always carries in case situations like this happen. An old, yet efficient mean of hiding a body. He takes a breath in and strikes the match to ignite it, simply watching the hues of white and grey dance over the walls.

Someone had once told him that fire was truly beautiful with coloured vision, illuminating the atmosphere and all immediate surroundings in many different bright, cheerful shades as soon as anybody lights it. Not that he’ll ever get to witness it. He isn’t exactly planning on giving himself mortality just to see colour. Therefore, the stories told can stay as rumours to him, absolutely nothing else. If seeing is believing, he won’t ever know and doesn’t particularly want to either. He can only imagine for now, it’s not like he’s missing out anyway. Right now, he’s on the track for living forever and he is determined to keep it that way. Who _wouldn’t_ want eternal life?

A flash of light down at the other end of the alley distracts him from his thoughts, reminding him of his urgency. He opens his hand, though still being extremely careful. Any unnecessary burns appearing to look too unnatural could ruin this entire plan, however well thought through. The lit match is released from his grasp and dropped onto the still body, leaving the flesh to burn, bones to char and the bullet to melt. He’s always used bullets prone to destroying under certain circumstances, seeing as it makes his job so much easier. Thomas watches it all, mesmerised, for a few seconds, before turning around and picking up a few black sacks. He hurls a few of the trash bags onto the scene of the blaze, hoping it might help to lessen suspicion from people, especially the police. Being in the rougher districts of the city, it is only expected for something like this to happen anyway, but he still has to be careful. He is fully aware of the danger.

He supervises the fire for a few minutes, waiting for it to become controlled enough so that he can leave it to burn away on its own accord. Just like every other time he’s done this, he pulls up his hood so that it partially covers his face and retreats out of the alleyway, looking down to his feet. Being a night mission taking place at – Thomas pulls out his phone from the bottomless void that is his pocket and checks it – two am, there generally aren’t going to be many people about, he figures. On top of that, it’s a forgotten alleyway he’s exiting, situated off the freeway. The perfect location, actually. He was lucky to have the opportunity to force his victim into such a restricted area; it always makes the whole task so much easier. And another plus, there are no security cameras to be found anywhere in sight here; the district council ‘can’t fund it’ so it’s anyone’s guess as to who committed this crime when the body is found. – _If_ the body is found.

His phone vibrates spontaneously in his palm, making him look back down at the screen. The words, ‘Unavailable number’ flash up in front of him in large, white letters. Beneath that are two buttons, one a dark grey and one in a slightly lighter shade, a regular call interface. He knows immediately who it is trying to reach him. Nobody else would call him at this time of night. And nobody else has an unlisted number. It could only be one person. Thomas presses his thumb down on the light colored circle sporting a small white icon of a phone, raising his hand up towards his ear.

“Hello?” His tone is dark and emotionless. Of course it would be. A murderer has no good side, no voice in their ear telling them to stop, no care for anyone or anything but themselves. I mean, he never did have enough of a conscience in the first place, even before he began to kill to earn a living. Though, obviously then he had feelings. Oh, how that’s different now. At least before his experiences he would actually bother to put any emotion into his voice.

“Thomas.” Yeah, he was right. He can tell after the first syllable exits the caller’s lips. Not to mention the name. Technically, first names are not allowed in company walls for security purposes. Madison and Jefferson, however, are too close to follow these rules. It’s the same southerner he’s grown to love despite being an emotionless shell of a man himself, almost incapable of human emotion.

“What is it, Jemmy?” Thomas allows himself a smile as he addresses his friend equally as informally, though continuing to speak in his low, boring Southern drawl. He sounds more disinterested than he actually is, as per usual. It’s a relief to hear his friend’s voice after a hard task. With this organisation, you never know who’s been assassinated and who lives to see another day. In this harsh, selfish world you can’t trust anyone.

“Any chance you can swing by?” The voice is fast and low, not to mention urgent, though there remains a small trace of joy in his words. Shit, no greeting. That means something seriously dangerous is happening. Thomas is suddenly alert and ready. Regularly, James opens his calls with some false flirt. Thomas still has no idea why, though he suspects it is either to throw people off or give him an idea of who’s speaking. But it’s not like he wouldn’t know anyway. He’s extremely close with one person and one person alone; Jemmy is pretty much all he’s got.

“Second headquarters?” Thomas asks immediately, his tone changing quickly. He tries to plan the route in his head as he speeds up, however finds his mind failing him. As he wracks his brains for a possible solution, his other, unoccupied hand reaches down into his pocket to curl around the folds of material. A habit he’s picked up from stress. And the cold, but that’s unimportant.

“First.” The clipped reply is cut short by shouts from various people in the background. “And hurry.”

Thomas’s heart begins to pump at almost double his resting rate. Whenever they’re called to the company’s main headquarters it has something to do with Washington. They aren’t called by the boss unless it is an emergency. Only the most important calls are made with the request of a summon to their first office. “Stay in the call.” He orders, keeping his voice steady.

“Yes, sir.” Comes the short response. A pause hangs between them, punctuated by the absent white noise of the line. Formal address isn’t exactly their thing. “Do you need tracking?” More shouting comes down to meet Thomas’s ears, crackling with loud background noises.

“Please.” Thomas feels an itch in the back of his neck, where he carries a microchip containing various sets of data. He’s always hated it and quite honestly thinks it makes him feel like a lost dog, despite its usefulness. Only company devices can retrieve his real information, and he has an alias both in mind and in record, ready in standby in case he’s found by a rival group. Believe it or not those exist.

“One second.” The reply is delivered hurriedly, the words barely grazing the lips of his partner in their haste to achieve their tasks; Thomas to follow directions and James to enter the code he’s memorised off by heart belonging to his best friend.

Thomas listens to the soft tapping of computer keys as he continues down the street, every step bringing him closer to actual civilization. The low hum of cars is approaching, the noise even more distinct now. He needs to be careful. More careful than he has been all night. In the dull, white glow of the streetlights is a danger he can’t afford to face – detection.

“You’re approximately point four miles away, not very far.” Madison comments as he loudly clicks around on his monitor, pinpointing the target location and his friend’s whereabouts.  “Somewhere between five and ten minutes, I’m saying.”

Thomas nods to himself in acknowledgement, even though his companion can’t see, and turns a corner. The lights are brighter here. It’s not exactly a good thing but it isn’t bad either. It’ll lessen suspicion slightly, though it probably can’t take away from the fact that he’s walking around at three in the morning wearing all black clothing, with the hood of a large, baggy sweater up covering his face. “Which direction?”

  Madison hums loudly into Thomas’s ear in thought, flipping the map around on his monitor display so that he has a better idea of Jefferson’s whereabouts. “Left, then turn right. You’ll recognise it then. You would during the day, anyway.”

Thomas follows the direction given to him obediently, guiding himself past light after light. The dim grey pools illuminate the path before him in a soft, unnatural glow. Every so often, the occasional car bustling past makes him jump and dive into the shadows. An action of habit. “Any chance you can tell me why I’m being called?”

 Madison shakes his head at the end of the line, before realising Jefferson can’t actually see. “Nope.” There is an obvious hint of laughter in his voice. Thomas decides to pin that on his bubbly personality. If there’s a dangerous mission at hand he is unlikely to be laughing about that. He continues along until he spots a familiar wall, marked with the artistic graffiti and tags he knows oh so well. Even though the art style doesn’t take away from the fact that it’s all completely grey. But grey is good. Grey means life. “Thanks.” He mutters down the microphone, disconnecting their call and delving his hand into his pocket to replace his phone, filling the space at the bottom.

The brickwork separating him from the decently sized warehouse building stands at almost double his height, with a drainpipe running up the corner. He smirks to himself, despite the worry eating away at the back of his mind concerning the call. This is barely a challenge for somebody standing at six foot, three inches tall, with about four year of experience. He pauses; looks around. This stunt he’s probably performed several hundred times in his life. By now, it’s no challenge. He steps back a little, before running towards the wall and jumping. His hands catch on the top and he automatically clings on tightly. His feet hang down, not needed as he uses his entire upper body strength to haul himself over the barrier, aided by the hard, sturdy side of the wall. As he throws himself over the edge his memory is cast back to when he first had to use this ‘back entrance’. When he was younger and scrawnier than now, at least. He could never jump that high and needed to be boosted by another recruit.

Thomas lands on the floor with a catlike agility, with no noise and no clumsiness. You’d be surprised if you saw it, actually. For a huge, hulking figure like himself it’s almost unfair to have such skill. The door stands tall in front of him and he stands slowly, hood falling back past his fluffy hair, which he’d been told by Madison, closely resembles a cotton ball or a marshmallow. As practiced, he takes a single stride forward and slides the tip of his finger into a small hole in the wall, holding it there for a few seconds before drawing his hand back completely.

There’s a mechanical-sounding whir followed up by a couple of small beeps as the door emits a sudden quiet click. Immediately, Thomas turns the handle and steps inside, careful to shut it tight as soon as he steps inside. It _is_ regulation, after all. And for a dangerous task or life-threatening experiment he has to stick to the safety measures.

Except, nothing about this screams danger, he notices as he looks upwards. The scene he is met with doesn’t appear to be a high security mission. No, of course it isn’t. There was a reason why James was overly happy during that call. Instead of armed agents and a hurriedly muttered assignment, Thomas finds himself faced with a beaming Jemmy holding a bunch of balloons which are all hued in various different shades of grey. His boss, Agent Washington, is stood behind him with a banner that proclaims, ' **CONGRATS ON YOUR PROMOTION** ' in huge, bold letters.

Thomas scowls, filling his expression with as much poison as he can. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this first chapter! Once I was doing a very interesting roleplay and I came across this au. I immediately thought it would be a perfect opportunity to incorperate a lot of ideas I've had before and decided to give it a go. I know this chapter drags on a bit but bear with me, the acrtual plot starts to emerge around chapter three.


End file.
